


To This Day

by Zinnith



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: sga_kinkmeme, Friendship, Gen, Grief, Homecoming, Masturbation, PTSD, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-27
Updated: 2011-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zinnith/pseuds/Zinnith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronon, rediscovering himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To This Day

**Author's Note:**

> Repost from the kinkmeme.

The transition from simple survival to actual living takes a lot longer than Ronon expected. For seven years he's been dreaming about being able to stay in the same place for longer than a night, of being able to eat when he's hungry and sleep when he's tired and be around other people without the constant fear that the Wraith will follow him and wipe them all out, leaving him responsible for their deaths.

He has his own room with a bed and a door that can be locked and a window that can be opened to let the sea breeze in. The first night in Atlantis, he lies on his back, wide awake, unable to get comfortable. The mattress is too soft and there are too many pillows and blankets. He ends up sliding down onto the floor, curling up there with his blaster in one hand and his blade in the other and when he finally manages to go to sleep, he wakes up every time someone walks past in the corridor outside.

The first days, he can't seem to stop eating. The mess is open from early morning and doesn't close until long after dark and there's nothing to stop him from going there and piling food onto his plate, which he does despite Dr Beckett's warnings to go easy in the beginning to give his stomach a chance to get used to regular meals again. He eats until he's full and then continues, unable to leave anything on the tray. When it's impossible to swallow another bite, he sneaks the leftovers into his pockets, not quite ready to believe that there'll be another meal waiting for him the next time he comes there. He hides food in his room and in the gym and along the paths where he goes running, creating small supply caches out of habit. Ronon is aware that the Lanteans see him as some kind of uncivilised wildman, not quite fit for human interaction. Sheppard amusedly explains the concept of forks and Ronon discards the cutlery the moment the Colonel turns his back because eating with his fingers is faster. It’s not the table manners his mother taught him, but his mother was taken by the Wraith over ten years ago and will never be around to scold him again.

Atlantis is full of people, more human beings than he's seen in the same place for seven years. They seem to be everywhere, too many, too close, and he can't keep track of all of them at once. He jumps every time someone accidentally brushes up against him in a corridor, and he gets a headache from trying to listen to of all the different conversations that's going on everywhere at all times. They use unfamiliar words, phrases he does his best to remember and catalogue. He doesn't get their jokes and he doesn't understand their science, and the written language they call English seems to be made up by lines and squiggles that he can't make sense of, the letters ugly and stilted and lacking the elegant fluidity of Satedan writing.

* * *

The Marines, the Lantean warriors, ask him to show them some 'moves' and he hesitates, not trusting himself. They are not much older than Ronon was when he first joined the Satedan Army, and they don't quite seem to realise what they are up against. It’s been so long since Ronon was simply sparring instead of fighting for his life that he spends every single training class with his heart in his throat, terrified that he’ll snap and kill someone by accident. But Sheppard wouldn’t let Ronon train with the Marines unless he trusted him and that knowledge is enough to put the fears aside and start to teach them how to defend themselves against the Wraith. Soon, he has a regular sparring class, a group of young men and women eager to learn what he has to teach them. They are also willing to explain jokes and Earth references and introduce him to moonshine, a strong liquor that’s brewed in a closet and is supposed to be a big secret even though everybody knows about it.

Sheppard and McKay show him movies and Ronon likes Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings. He doesn’t get Back to the Future at all, to Sheppard’s great disappointment and McKay’s unabashed glee. Dr Weir teaches him to read English and gives him books, texts to explain Earth culture and Earth history. In return, he tells her as much as he can bear about Sateda, about his people and their customs. It’s difficult and every word that comes out of his mouth just reminds him of the fact that his home is gone, that his entire race has been wiped out.

* * *

Lanteans seem to be obsessed with sex, while at the same time it’s curiously forbidden. People whisper about it, gossip about who’s doing what with who and by the time Ronon is starting to feel comfortable enough in Atlantis that he’s stopped getting jumpy about people talking around him and can concentrate on what they’re actually talking about, he’s a little confused over how they seem to spend more time thinking and talking about sex than actually doing it.

On Sateda, there was no time for this strange dance, these curious courting rituals. Ronon hasn’t been with anyone since Melena and now that he finally has time to rest, to allow himself to feel the loss and grieve for her, he can’t imagine ever being with anyone else. After all the years running, it’s like his body has discarded those desires all together. The first months after Sateda fell, he’d still miss it, spend cold lonely nights fucking his own fist, clenching his teeth around a silent release, but the more his mind was set on survival, the more did he forget about it.

Sometimes, he touches himself in the shower after sparring class, remembering when an intense work-out would leave him achingly hard, but his cock stays soft and uninterested, and he pushes the thoughts aside, figuring that it’s just one more thing the Wraith stole from him.

* * *

Dr Heightmeyer, the Lantean psychologist, wants him to sit down and talk about his experiences, talk about being a Runner, talk about the Wraith, talk about how he feels. He tells her he feels fine because he doesn’t even know where to start. Just the thought of having to explain his entire life to this stranger, this soft-eyed woman, makes him feel itchy because no matter how he tries he will never be able to make her understand. She doesn’t have the frame of reference to comprehend; no one in this city of innocent outsiders do. He listens to the tales of their homeworld, stories from their sheltered lives back home, and even though he’s surrounded by people, he’s never felt more alone.

* * *

He runs every morning and every evening and sometimes in the middle of the day, because running is what he knows. It's something familiar and strangely comforting now that he can run because he wants to and not because he has to. Sheppard usually joins him in the mornings, struggling to keep up but stubbornly following every step of the way. Some of the Marines sometimes join him in the evenings, challenging him to races that they cheerfully lose. After a while he grows to enjoy the company, but some days he steals away and goes off alone, craving the solitude and the sound of his feet against the ground, the pounding of blood in his ears.

It takes some time to realise that he has choices again. That he can decide when he wants to be alone and when he wants to be around people. He can decide who to talk to and when and what to talk about and that no one can make him do anything he doesn’t want to.

He sleeps in his bed now, but he still keeps his weapons close at hand, and he still wakes up at every sound. He’s beginning to get used to having access to all the food he needs and he doesn’t hoard any longer even though he can’t shake the habit of always keeping a snack within easy reach. He has nightmares and he gets restless, and some days it’s all he can do to keep his anger under control so he won’t destroy another punching bag in the gym, but on a whole, it feels like he’s beginning to settle in.

* * *

Ronon doesn’t miss sex, not really. It feels like something that was a part of his old life on Sateda and doesn’t fit into this new one. His body seems to have other ideas though, like it’s starting to remember those sensations along with the feeling of being full and warm and rested. One night he wakes from a dream, remnants of images of faceless, soft bodies still whispering in his mind, and he realises that he’s hard. He shoves the blanket aside, a little surprised to see the bulge between his legs and then he just lies there, looking at it. It would be easy to slip a hand inside his pants, to touch himself, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it, isn’t even sure if he’d remember how. He waits instead, barely breathing, until his erection slowly goes away and he can go back to sleep.

After that, it’s like his body has decided to start pay attention to those desires again. At first, it always happens in his sleep. He wakes up grinding his hips into the mattress and for every time, he lets it go on for a little longer before he stops. He never finishes it, doesn’t really know why, just that he’s not quite ready for it yet.

Then it starts to happen in the shower. He’s soaping up, running his hands over his body to wash away the sweat and dust from an off-world mission, and suddenly he feels his cock beginning to fill in his hand. For a moment, he just stands still, breathing slowly in and out, holding himself loosely. Then he makes the conscious decision to move his fingers, stroke slowly up and down. It feels good, better than he remembers. He speeds up, begins to pant slightly, reaches out his free hand to steady himself against the bathroom wall. He lets himself get close before he pulls off and opens his eyes again, feeling the blood thrumming hotly through his veins.

He gets out of the shower and dries off, still hard, and then stands in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time, studying his own face. Clean now, skin still a little flushed from the shower and the rediscovered arousal. Beard trimmed, tanglebraids neat and tight like they haven’t been in years. Unless you look at his eyes, you’d think he’d never been a Runner at all.

* * *

He’s sparring with Teyla the first time it happens in public. She’s managed to get him in a hold, his back against the floor, a bantos rod against his collarbone and a knee against his groin. Before Ronon can make his brain react, his body does, eagerly pushing up against her. His pants get tight and his skin gets hot and his breath catches in his throat.

Teyla backs away immediately, eyebrows raised, eyes wide and a little surprised and a lot amused. Ronon takes a deep breath and gets himself under control, incredibly grateful that it’s Teyla and not Sheppard, who would probably get weird about it, or one of the Marines who would get even weirder.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, I...”

“No, please, there is nothing to apologise for...”

“I’m not, I don’t want to... I don’t think I can...”

“There is someone, on New Athos, I cannot...”

Then their eyes meet and they both hear what the other is saying. The tension dissolves and the next moment they are both laughing so hard that it brings tears to their eyes. They cut the sparring session short and walk together to the mess for water and fruit.

“It’s been a long time,” Ronon confesses when they sit down at a table with their snack. “I didn’t even know I could still feel that way. And people here... they don’t look at it the same way.”

“They can afford not to,” Teyla says. “There is no need to worry, Ronon. You have time now to find that joy again.”

For the first time since Sateda fell, he can actually bring himself to believe it.

* * *

He still has nightmares and he can’t imagine sharing a bed with someone anytime soon, but it’s a relief to learn that that part of him isn’t as dead as he thought. It’s one less thing sacrificed to the Wraith, and Ronon has resolved to take back as much from them as he possibly can.

The next time he wakes up from vague dreams, he lies awake for a few breaths, counting the pounding beat of his pulse. Then he turns onto his back, shoves down his pants and takes himself in hand, squeezing, tugging, fondling his balls, taking the time to feel and acknowledge every sensation. He closes his eyes, thinking about no one in particular, just the feeling of soft bodies, of muscle, of wet slippery heat. This time, when he feels himself getting close he doesn’t stop, just rides the wave to the end, teetering on the brink for a long breathless moment before he lets go, spilling over his own fingers and belly.

It feels good. He slides out of bed, walks to the bathroom to clean up, and then goes back to sleep.

* * *

Dr Heightmeyer insists that Ronon keeps seeing her, even though he doesn’t understand why. She tries to explain how he’s been through a lot of trauma and how he needs to process his experiences in order to acclimate to a normal life again.

Ronon has learned that the Lantean expression for talk like that is ‘bullshit’, but he refrains from saying it. He’s been doing his best to stay civil with Heightmeyer because she’s one of Teyla’s closest friends and he doesn’t want to insult her. She means well and she wants to help - she just doesn’t realise that the best way to do it is to leave him alone. She can’t seem to understand that Ronon is processing just fine on his own and what she thinks of as a ‘normal life’ isn’t normal for him.

“I talk,” he tells her finally. “Just not to you.” It’s not precisely polite, but he doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.

It’s true. Ronon talks about Sateda with Dr Weir, finding it easier and easier to remember his homeworld in her sympathetic presence. He talks about Running with Sheppard, who doesn’t say anything back, just listens and provides beer. He talks about his scars with Beckett, the back muscles that won’t work quite right any more, the shoulder that keeps popping out of joint. He talks about everything else with Teyla, everything the Lanteans can’t grasp, all the things that make him homesick, childhood memories, horror tales about the Wraith.

Ronon takes a deep breath, wondering what to say. He used to be good with words once, used to write songs and poetry, but it seems like language somehow deserted him during the time he spent Running.

“I’ll always sleep with my weapons,” he says. “I’ll always hate the Wraith. I’ll never act like I’m not Satedan. Doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me that won’t fix itself with time.”

Heightmeyer listens to him and for a minute Ronon is convinced that he picked the wrong words, that she still doesn’t understand why he hates this room and these sessions so much. Then, finally, she nods and smiles and says, “All right. Just remember that I’m here if you need me.”

It’s not likely, but it’s enough for now. When the hour is over and Ronon gets up to leave, Heightmeyer shakes his hand and doesn’t set a new appointment.

* * *

“They don’t really get it, do they?” he asks Teyla one late evening when Sheppard’s gone off to bed and McKay’s gone off to his lab and Ronon and Teyla stay behind in the mess, sharing one of the last brownies, dark, chewy-sweet cakes that stick to your mouth. Ronon has developed a liking for them and the cook always saves him a few whenever they’re served.

They have spent the evening discussing the Wraith, talking about strategies for how to deal with them and Ronon got more and more frustrated the more they talked. Yes, Sheppard has the whole guilt thing about waking them up in the first place, but it doesn’t change the fact that if they wanted to, the Lanteans could just pack up their things and go back home. Ronon and Teyla don’t have that option and it just doesn’t seem to register with the rest of them.

Teyla watches him for a few heartbeats and then shakes her head. “No. They are learning, I think. At least a little bit. But I fear they will never truly understand.”

“Guess not,” Ronon says, licking the crumbs off his fingers.

The Lanteans gave Ronon his life back and he will always owe them for that. But he has to live it his own way, in his own time, figuring out how to put the old together with the new. Learning how to fit into this adopted home while not forgetting where he comes from. There’s still a long road ahead and not just for him.

Teyla seems lost in thought for a few moments and then she meets Ronon’s eyes, raises her teacup and says, “To this day.”

It’s an old Satedan greeting, one Ronon can’t recall telling her about, but it doesn’t surprise him that she knows it. He doesn’t have a cup of his own, so instead he smiles and echoes the words.

“To this day.”

For no matter what happens tomorrow, this day they are alive.

-fin-


End file.
